


The Lion and the King

by Ginipig



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, King Alistair, M/M, Pining, Romance, Warden Ultimate Sacrifice, happy for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: From the moment King Alistair arrives at Skyhold, Cullen finds himself off-kilter for reasons he'd rather not think about. His old friend is his king now, he is the Inquisition Commander, and anything he might want is out of the question.Or is it?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gowombat83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gowombat83/gifts).



> This was inspired by Gowombat83's Cullistair drabble [At First Sight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868380/chapters/34879745), where Cullen and King Alistair meet and are immediately taken with each other (as may be obvious from the title). I added my headcanon of some personal history, more pining and feels and angst, and some 8600 words or so, but hey! Still inspired :D <3

Cullen stood next to Leliana at the head of the main hall. Outwardly, he presented the stoic facade of the Commander of the Inquisition.

Inwardly … was another story.

He’d been worrying about this visit since Josephine had informed them of it a month ago. A decade was a long time to go without seeing anyone. But this particular someone had maintained a hold over Cullen even in his absence, and neither of them were the men — boys, really — that they'd been when they’d known each other.

“Inquisitor, may I present His Royal Highness, King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden.”

Josephine spoke at a normal volume just as Cullen’s old … friend, though the word hardly seemed sufficient, reached hearing distance in the main hall. Although Cullen hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade — and then not exactly under the best of circumstances — he looked surprisingly good. Or perhaps it shouldn’t have been surprising; time was likely kinder to a royal living in a palace than to a lyrium-starved ex-Templar aged by trauma far more than his actual thirty years.

The Inquisitor stood in front of the throne — _throne_ , as if she, too, commanded a kingdom, but he promised Josephine he’d stop calling it ridiculous — with the Lady Ambassador on her right side. Cullen and Leliana stood on her left.

Alistair — the king — _his_ king, for Cullen always had and would consider himself Fereldan through-and-through — smiled, and it was the same smile Alistair used to flash when he was being extra polite to the Chantry mothers. He bowed, and it was a real proper one of the sort he used to mock when they were younger.

“King Alistair,” the Inquisitor said neutrally, with a slight bow of her head, as they’d discussed.

No one, not even Josephine, knew what to expect of this visit; the Inquisitor had first met the King of Ferelden at Redcliffe, and neither he nor Arl Teagan had been particularly pleased by the fact that a Tevinter magister had taken over Redcliffe and gained the allegiance of the Fereldan mages. The announcement of the royal visit had given no hint as to its purpose, and the war council had spent many a long night discussing possible outcomes.

That was why he and Leliana were present at this diplomatic meeting. Josephine, for once, agreed with Cullen that a subtle show of strength could be a beneficial strategic move.

The king bowed a second time and spoke. Though his tone was solemn, Cullen recognized in it the voice of the man he’d known so many years ago. “Inquisitor. I’m afraid when we met in Redcliffe, we weren’t properly introduced. I was angry about my uncle, Arl Teagan — this is him, by the way, say hi, Teagan —”

Arl Teagan bowed, murmuring, “Inquisitor,” while the king barreled right on over him.

“— being kicked out of his own castle, and I didn’t particularly care if everyone present deserved my anger. I have come to Skyhold to rectify that, and humbly beg your forgiveness, in the hopes that Ferelden and the Inquisition might be allies in the fight against Corypheus.”

After a short pause, he leaned over and whispered rather loudly to the arl, “Did I do it right?”

Arl Teagan closed his eyes and raised his head to the heavens, as if desperately praying for patience; Cullen knew the look and the feeling only too well.

The king, meanwhile, gave his too-innocent-to-be-sincere smile, which Cullen also knew far too well. Cullen’s response was his more subtle one of old — a straight face and a slow blink. Josephine’s lips flattened into a line, but Leliana pressed hers together to hide her own smile, and the Inquisitor’s mouth twitched as if she was keeping one in, as well.

She bowed and said, as they’d practiced for this preferred situation, “Thank you, Your Majesty. The Inquisition welcomes you, and Ferelden, as an ally. If you should like to speak more in private, Ambassador Josephine will lead the way.” Then she leaned over to Josephine and, as the king had, asked, “Did _I_ do it right?”

Leliana hid a chuckle behind a hand, and even Cullen couldn’t keep a quiet snort from escaping. Josephine merely smiled and folded her hands in front of her waist — her Wicked Grace face was far more practiced than the arl’s — and nodded.

His Majesty let loose his grin at that, turning to the arl and saying, “I like her.”

The Inquisitor returned his smile warmly, but did not respond. “Ambassador, if you would.”

Josephine led the way to the war room, followed by the Inquisitor, then the king and Arl Teagan, with Leliana and Cullen bringing up the rear.

When they were in the relative privacy of Josephine’s office, His Majesty leaned to Arl Teagan and not-whispered, “I _told_ you I could do it.”

Leliana grinned, and though Cullen rolled his eyes, he could not help a smile, either.

Yes, the years had been far kinder to his old friend than they had been to Cullen.

 

* * *

 

For once on the advisers’ side of the table — an event strange in and of itself — the Inquisitor spoke as soon as the door was closed.

“King Alistair, I would like to —”

The king held up a hand. “If I might stop you right there, Inquisitor.”

Cullen wasn’t surprised by the interruption, which had long been a method in Alistair’s arsenal of chaos; what _did_ surprise him was that now there was no authority above the man to admonish him for it.

Being royalty had its advantages, he supposed.

“I despise standing on ceremony,” the king continued. “So if we’re to have closed door discussions, I’d prefer if you called me Alistair.”

“Your Majesty,” Arl Teagan scolded without actually scolding. “We discussed this —”

The king sighed, and for the first time Cullen could see a weariness that mirrored his own. “I know we did, Teagan, but I don’t want these to be official, formal, stuffy diplomatic relations.” He turned to the Inquisitor. “I’d like us to be able to speak plainly.”

The Inquisitor seemed taken aback, but not unpleasantly so. “I quite agree. But on one condition.”

The king inclined his head, a welcome to continue.

“If I’m to call you Alistair, then you must call me Evie,” said the Inquisitor.

His Majesty grinned, and it was the light, genuine one Cullen was happy to see hadn’t completely been smothered by duty and responsibility. “I had a feeling you’d understand.” He waved vaguely. “Heavy is the head, et cetera. Or hand, in your case.”

The Inquisitor smiled at that, and Cullen wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to be thrust, unprepared and unwilling, into a role not of one’s choosing. He imagined there would be a camaraderie in that.

The king stepped around the table and pulled Leliana into a bear hug, lifting her off the ground — which, admittedly, didn’t seem particularly difficult considering he was a head taller. She returned the hug with gusto, a sure sign, if one was necessary, that they were old friends.

Had anyone else attempted such a display — unlikely, as Cullen knew no one stupid enough to try — she would likely have drawn her knife across their throat before they could complete the hug.

After several long, awkward moments for the rest of them, the two broke apart and regarded each other in thoughtful silence.

“New outfit,” said the king.

“You as well,” Leliana responded.

The king quite obviously looked her up and down and declared, “Looks good.” With a wave to her entire person, he added, “Fully encapsulates the whole Princess Stabbity persona you’re leaning into.”

Leliana smirked, and His Majesty was clearly better friends with her or a far braver man than Cullen, who nearly shuddered at its terrifying placidity.

“And you seem to have grown into your role quite well,” said Leliana.

The king gave a fake gasp. “You take that back!” But he couldn’t even pretend for long and grinned. “All the credit goes to Eamon and Teagan, and even then, they’ve barely kept their sanity. Right, Teagan?”

Arl Teagan, who wore the weary look of the Chantry mothers who dealt with Alistair’s trouble-making day in and day out for years, seemed to have given up on diplomatic propriety. “‘Barely kept’ is a bit generous, don’t you think? Eamon would have had a heart attack at your stunt back there.”

“That’s why I brought you.” The king leaned in to the Inquisitor and the rest, adding conspiratorially, “Keeps him on his toes. Plus,” he said, once again to Arl Teagan, “they found it endearing.”

“You know there are Orlesians here.”

The king threw up his hands. “And here I am, without Barkspawn. How else will they know I’m an ignorant Fereldan oaf?”

Leliana rolled her eyes and addressed the arl. “Please tell me you didn’t let him name his mabari Barkspawn.”

Arl Teagan shook his head. “Sister Leliana, you should know as well as I that there’s no stopping him once he decides on a terrible pun.”

Cullen couldn’t help a chuckle. Anyone who had ever spent any time with Alistair knew that.

Unfortunately, that drew the king’s attention, and his eyebrows shop upward toward his far-more-kingly-than-previous hairline. “Cullen Rutherford?”

He looked to Leliana for confirmation, which she provided. “Cullen is the Inquisition’s Commander.”

The king returned his gaze to Cullen, mouth gaping. “You look … great.”

Cullen’s face burned, and he dropped his gaze to the papers he suddenly needed to shuffle and read. Had the _King of Ferelden_ actually said that? Aloud? In front of several people?

“That’s not what I meant!” His Majesty quickly corrected. “I meant, um … uh … Teagan, what did I mean?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, did you need my assistance with something?” Arl Teagan asked, and Cullen could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Shut up,” the king hissed, before trying again. “I meant … your armor. It’s not Templar. It’s … fuzzy.”

To his enormous mortification, he heard giggles from the women on his side of the table, and Arl Teagan murmured, “Fuzzy?”

“I hate you,” the king muttered.

“Yes,” Leliana added so very unhelpfully. “Coats like that are quite useful out here in the Frostbacks, wouldn’t you say, Cullen?”

Cullen dearly wished he could turn and run as far away as possible without causing a diplomatic incident. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, with only a quick glance at the king, “You also look quite well, Your Majesty.”

“Well!” The king snapped his fingers. “That’s definitely what I meant, thank you, Cullen. You look _well_. And also … here.”

A couple more titters from probably all three women, and Cullen had never hated them all more than he did right now. Not even when they made fun of his hair. Or coat. Or all those proposals from Orlesian nobles. Or that horrid game of Wicked Grace. Or all of those _combined_.

“Because — because last I heard,” the king added quickly, “you were keeping Kirkwall from burning to the ground, and doing a damn good job of it, too.”

Cullen nearly squirmed. Now on slightly more familiar ground, he wasn’t sure which discomfited him more — that the king had cared enough to know where he was and what he was doing, or that the king (unlike many) believed he had been doing a good job at it.

He took a deep breath and looked up, but not at the king’s face — he wasn’t sure he could handle that on top of everything else. “I was. But when the Divine’s Left and Right Hands came to Kirkwall in preparation for the declaration of a new Inquisition, Seeker Pentaghast asked me to serve as Commander of its forces, and I accepted.”

“You, Cullen Rutherford, _left_ the Order?”

Cullen clenched his jaw at the disbelief and (perhaps imagined) judgment, but nodded. “I did, Your Majesty.”

The king scoffed at that. “I know you’re Fereldan, but anyone who lectured me at the ripe old age of fifteen about better serving the Maker and not being such a little shit has more than earned the right to call me Alistair.”

Josephine’s eyes widened, though at the idea of a young Cullen scolding the future king of Ferelden or said king’s current use of rather coarse language, Cullen didn’t know. Or perhaps she was shocked at the implication that Cullen had used the coarse language, which was not at all the case. He hoped she knew him better than that.

“Lels,” the king sing-songed, “did you not warn your ambassador about me?”

Leliana smiled. “No warning can fully encapsulate everything you bring to the throne of Ferelden, Alistair,” and Cullen couldn’t disagree with that.

His Majesty crossed his arms and regarded Josephine with that self-deprecating grin. “Tell me, Ambassador, how many Fereldan monarchs have you met?”

Josephine’s smile was small, if a little sad. “I had the distinct pleasure of meeting King Cailan and Queen Anora in Orlais not long after his coronation.”

Arl Teagan bowed his head, and the king’s grin faltered, transforming into a far more bitter, cynical smirk that did not fit him at all. “Ah. Well, I imagine you haven’t met many king’s bastards who are elevated to the throne despite knowing next-to-nothing about royalty or nobility or ruling a country.”

“In Ferelden? No,” said Josephine, tone gently droll. “But I grew up in Antiva, so the answer is more than you might think.”

The king laughed out loud at that. “That’s oddly comforting. Antiva’s doing pretty well, so maybe I can’t mess things up too badly!”

No one responded to that, but the king didn’t seem to expect them to, because he, as before, barreled right on through.

“Inquisitor —” At the Inquisitor’s raised eyebrow, he corrected himself with a grin. “Ah, _Evie_ — huh. That isn’t easy, is it? Maybe I should be nicer when people forget.” He waved away his own conversational detour. “At any rate, Evie, I appreciate your kind welcome, but I’m exhausted from traveling. Could we resume our chats tomorrow?”

“Of course,” the Inquisitor said with a smile. “Josephine will show you to your rooms.”

“Thank you,” the king said. And then, before he turned to follow Josephine, he smiled at Cullen without any of his former bluster or confidence. “It’s … really good to see you well, Cullen.”

If Cullen hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn he saw the king’s cheeks pink slightly.

As the two Fereldans headed for the door, Arl Teagan loudly whispered, “Did I do it right?”

“I should have you executed for that. Not assisting the king in a time of need is a form of treason …”

Cullen, unsure how to respond to such a sincere-sounding compliment from the _King of Ferelden_ , didn’t. He merely stared at the door for several long moments after the king and the others had left.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Cullen hadn’t given much further thought to the afternoon’s events. He wasn’t purposely avoiding the topic, of course — that would be silly. No, he was simply a very busy man, buried under reports and various other correspondence, and had no time for idle concerns — thoughts. Idle thoughts.

Because there was nothing to be concerned about, idly or otherwise.

As busy as he quite obviously was, he expected the knock at the door to be one of his officers and thus only absently said, “Enter,” without ceasing his writing.

Poking his head in, His Majesty said, “Oh, good,” before fully entering the office. “For a minute I thought the broody elf in the rotunda sent me this way just so I’d leave him alone.”

“Your Majesty!” Cullen nearly toppled over his inkwell in his hurry to stand.

The king rolled his eyes. “First of all, sit down. This is _your_ damned office. And second, we’ve been over this. Stop calling me that. It’s me, Alistair. Can we just …” He sighed, running his hands through his auburn hair. “Can we pretend for a little bit that we’re normal people? Like I’m just an old friend that came to visit, without all the pomp and ceremony and royal bullshit?”

The plea in his voice made him look a decade older than he did this afternoon, and for the first time, Cullen _did_ think of him as someone other than the King of Ferelden.

“I, um — of course.” Without the rules of decorum to cling to, Cullen was cast off into the deep, unforgiving ocean of social interaction, and he was hardly a strong swimmer on the best of days. “What, um, can I do for you, Your — uh …” He cleared his throat. “Did you need something?”

“I could use a walk, if I’m honest.” His Majesty — er, _Alistair_ — tapped out an erratic rhythm on his thighs. “Maybe a drink. Would you want to — uh — catch up? Over a drink or two?”

Whatever Cullen had expected, it wasn’t that. But maybe Alistair was tired of everyone fussing and wanted a break from it all? Cullen could relate.

“That is — uh —” Now Alistair seemed to make a concerted effort to cease his movements. “If you’re busy, I understand. What with commanding an entire army and all.”

Gone was the confident monarch who only a few hours earlier had charmed the Inquisitor with his disarming grin before sauntering into the war room and winning over Josephine, as well. Cullen felt as though they’d stepped back in time fifteen years and happened upon their younger selves.

“No, that’s quite all right,” Cullen said quickly. “Everyone is always telling me I shouldn’t work so much, so … Would you like to go to the Herald’s Rest?”

Idiot. Surely the King of Ferelden didn’t want to drink the slop produced in a shabby tavern in the mountains, regardless of whether the Inquisitor frequented the place or not.

“Actually, I was wondering if we could go somewhere a bit quieter.” Alistair ran his hand through his hair again. “I don’t really feel like being mobbed by a bunch of my Skyhold-residing subjects tonight.”

Cullen could have smacked himself in the forehead. Not only was he an idiot for a completely different reason, but he also unfairly estimated the tastes (and manners) of Alistair, who had been a Warden once and had probably drunk far worse than what the Rest offered.

“Yes, of course, Your —” Cullen corrected himself at Alistair’s lifted eyebrow. “Yes, um … yes. I’m afraid I don’t have much of anything to drink here, and there aren’t many quiet, private places that aren’t at least occasionally patrolled by guards, particularly with a foreign monarch visiting. I insisted that —”

“Yes, yes, you’re very good at your job,” Alistair said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m sure no one will even get close to assassinating me. Actually … I was thinking that maybe we could go to my quarters?” After the oddly phrased pseudo-question, he added, “Which are surrounded by my personal guards who understand my preference for privacy, and between them and you I’d be perfectly protected like the helpless, Templar-trained, former Warden that I am.”

There was no venom in his tone, just a simple resignation to being treated as though he couldn’t protect himself.

“I only mentioned the guards with respect to privacy,” Cullen hurried to clarify. “And to explain its lack around Skyhold. I would never presume that you —”

“Ha-ha,” Alistair said, faking a smile and sounding not at all amused. “You’re hilarious. But I know it’s your job and theirs to presume I’m a child that can’t be trusted around sharp objects. Now, your Ambassador gave me a lovely bottle of Antivan wine, and I’d like to share it with someone who might enjoy it, unlike Teagan, who is a complete barbarian. So what do you say, Rutherford? Interested?”

The last was the thing he used to say when they were younger and he was trying to convince Cullen to join in whatever trouble he had planned. The nostalgia made Cullen smile.

“Lead the way, Your —”

“Maker’s balls, Cullen, if you almost call me ‘Your Majesty’ one more time, I _will_ tell Leliana and Lady Josephine about that time you were late to morning meditation because your socks were soaked with —”

“That was your fault!”

Alistair smirked. “Does it matter?”

“You’ve made your point,” Cullen growled. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen had never visited any of the guest quarters in Skyhold before. Alistair’s were nearly as large and exquisite as the Inquisitor’s.

The door hadn’t even snapped shut behind them before Alistair began stripping off his fur-lined outer coat and mail armor with an extremely inappropriate groan.

Cullen coughed and turned around. This was not helping his … well, it wasn’t helping anything.

“Oh, for Maker’s sake,” Alistair said. “I’m just taking off all this armor and official kingly crap. Some things never change, eh?”

Cullen felt himself blushing and thus didn’t turn around (though that wasn’t the only reason), instead shifting his weight awkwardly and rubbing the back of his neck.

Alistair sighed. “You can turn around. I promise I’m decent.” Steps behind him told Cullen that Alistair was moving toward him anyway, so he risked a quick peek — only a fool would trust Alistair at his word in a situation like this — and saw Alistair, wearing trousers and a tunic, thank the Maker, approach a side table littered with bottles.

Alistair grabbed a bottle of Antivan wine that Cullen vaguely recognized from the cellar where the Inquisitor kept all the liquor she somehow stumbled upon throughout her adventures.

“Sorry about the —” Alistair’s wave seemed to encompass the entire room. “I always hope they’ll give me something reasonably sized, and then I end up in an enormous room like this that echoes because it’s just me, and I travel light.”

“Don’t you have a, um …” Cullen couldn’t think of the proper word for all the people and things royalty tended to travel with.

“Retinue?” Alistair shrugged, fiddling with the bottle. “Not really. If I had my way it would be me, a couple of guards, and Teagan. They’d never let me get away with that, but I have managed to convince them I don’t need a castle’s worth of servants and guards every time I travel.” He clucked at the bottle. “Teagan would say that if I had a proper steward, he’d be able to open this for me. But I say —” He grabbed a medium-sized dagger that was sitting on the table and lopped off the top of the bottle. “— why bring a whole person when I can dress myself and just do this instead?”

Cullen bent to the floor to pick up the cork, which wore an unbroken collar of glass. “Impressive. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Alistair finished pouring two glasses and handed one to Cullen. “A former Antivan Crow I used to travel with during the Blight. We would come across a lot of bottles and sometimes had to get creative. I don’t think I could use an actual corkscrew if I tried.”

He crossed the expansive room to a small couch and sat, looking Cullen up and down.

“Answer me honestly — do you sleep in that armor?”

Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. As if he didn’t get enough of this from Varric and his ilk on a daily basis. “I am the Commander of the Inquisition forces, and I —”

“Oh, shut up,” Alistair said, and when Cullen looked up at him he was grinning. “It was a joke. But while we’re on the topic, are you Orlesian now?”

Cullen blinked. “Excuse me?” His tone was far more defensive than he’d intended, but he didn’t particularly care.

Alistair held up two placating hands, accompanied by his classic grin. “Easy, there. I’ll take that as a _no_. Maybe I heard wrong, but Denerim’s been abuzz with word of the Lion of Skyhold.”

Oh. _That_.

Cullen’s eye roll might have been a bit dramatic, but it accurately conveyed his feelings, which was the point. “A ridiculous nickname I cannot seem to be rid of. Although, in my defense, sometimes it’s the Lion of Ferelden.”

Alistair tilted his head back and forth. “An oxymoron, but less traitorous.” He grinned again at Cullen’s glare. “Can I at least hear the story?”

Cullen sat on the couch, room enough for another person separating them. “I’m afraid it’s not particularly interesting. To some, the fur on my coat conjured images of a lion.”

“And it had nothing to do with your _fierceness_ in battle?”

Cullen shot Alistair a blank look over his glass, drawing a laugh that made Cullen’s stomach flip.

“Fine, be no fun as usual,” said Alistair. “But if you do decide you want to loosen up, you’re more than welcome to take that plate off.” Then his face grew serious. “Unless you’re completely naked under there.” As Cullen sputtered, Alistair rolled his eyes. “Maker knows it’s not anything I haven’t seen before.”

Cullen’s face caught on fire, he was certain. Yes, the male recruits all bathed and dressed in front of each other, but this was … different. They were men, adults, in positions of power, and — and —

“Maker’s balls!” Alistair threw his head back in a belly laugh. “Lels was right, you’re still so easy to embarrass! Sit back and relax!”

Cullen succeeded at the first request — or was it an order from his king? — but not the second. He did, indeed, feel somewhat out of place and too formal when Alistair’s wardrobe was much more casual, but he was more at ease in his armor than he would be without it, so that settled that.

“So. Cullen.” With not even a smirk left in sight, Alistair clasped him just above the elbow — the only place on his arm not covered in plate armor — in a tight grip. “How _are_ you?”

After all the joking and teasing, that was perhaps the last question Cullen expected. “I’m, uh — I’m well. Thank you.”

Alistair released his arm, and Cullen felt its absence more deeply than he’d expected. “I imagine I sound ridiculous, asking you that, but the last time I saw you was …”

Kinloch Hold.

“I recall.” Cullen took a deep breath and began a speech he’d planned for years and rehearsed during quiet moments for the past month, hoping he would get this chance with the retired Warden king. “I would like to apologize for my behavior. The way I acted —”

Alistair shook his head. “We understood. You’d been through some horrific things.” Taking a large swig from his glass, he looked away. “I had some people stationed in Kirkwall to keep an eye on the Fereldan refugee situation. Since they were in the area, I also asked them to keep their ears to the ground for any news about the Templars … and, uh, you specifically. I suppose that was at best uncalled for and at worst invasive, but, after everything that happened, I was worried about you.”

Torn between feelings of shock, mortification, and (in the deepest recesses of his mind) a small amount of flattery, Cullen swallowed a few times before asking, “And what did you hear?”

Alistair shrugged. “That serving under Knight-Commander Loony McMage-Hater wasn’t exactly the best life change for you.”

Cullen knew the silly nickname was meant to lighten the mood, but he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate it. To him, what Meredith had done — what he had allowed and even helped her to do — would never be anything but horrific.

The wine he drank barely tasted of anything beyond bitterness, and he turned his back completely to Alistair. “I am not proud of the man I was then.”

The heavy weight of that comforting hand rested on Cullen’s shoulder this time. “You did the right thing in the end.”

Cullen shook his head, hands clenching, one around the glass and the other into a fist. “Not soon enough. If I had —”

“She would have drummed you out of the Order and found someone who didn’t question her. Who might not have done what you did.”

Cullen shrugged off the excuse and — though unintentionally — Alistair’s hand with it. Its loss was almost painful this time.

“You know, I met Meredith once.” Alistair’s voice lightened considerably. “She was … not impressed with me.”

“I know.”

“How — you weren’t — I would have remembered —”

Alistair’s fluster made Cullen smirk, and he turned to face him.

“I wasn’t present, no. But I heard about it after the fact.”

Alistair buried his face in a hand. “Wonderful. Not only did she emasculate me in front of the Champion of Kirkwall, but then she told everyone about it?”

Bemused at Alistair’s strong reaction, Cullen said, “I was her second-in-command. She often complained at me.”

Alistair snorted. “I’d been king for around seven years at that point, but she scolded me like one of the Chantry mothers when we were young. I felt like I was seven years old again. I told the Champion that _she_ was the biggest threat to Kirkwall. I didn’t know then that she was extra-strength crazy.”

Cullen bowed his head. He’d seen it, doubted her, tried to find evidence. But oh, how he wished he’d done something sooner.

“I’m —” Alistair sighed. “This is going to sound patronizing, but I mean it sincerely. After everything you went through at Kinloch and during most of your time in Kirkwall, when I heard you’d stood up to her and stopped the Rite of Annulment … I was really proud of you, Cullen.”

Those golden-brown eyes, bright with intelligence and mirth, met Cullen’s, and the utter earnestness was more than he could bear.

He gulped down half his own glass and then stared at it intently before he managed to say, “Thank you for saying that.”

“But I’m not,” Alistair insisted. “Just saying it, I mean. I don’t think the Cullen Rutherford I knew in training would have had the guts to do something like that. But you did, and it was the right thing to do.”

“I —” He couldn’t meet those captivating eyes again, so he drained his wine and nodded. “Thank you, ser.”

Alistair threw his head back against the couch and sighed dramatically. “‘Ser’ is even worse than ‘Your Majesty.’ I’m not your superior.” He turned his body and leaned in, so that one leg was bent on the couch, the other hanging off the side, his head propped up on an elbow. “I’m just Alistair.”

Maker, he was so close. Too close. Cullen’s heart pounded, but he didn’t move away. He didn’t want to.

“But you are my superior,” he said softly, with a shake of his head. “You’re my king.”

Alistair’s gasp was small, but as close as he was, Cullen heard it clearly. “Your king?”

He placed just the slightest stress on _your_ , but his voice — Maker, it darkened in a way that made Cullen’s insides twist, and his heart picked up speed.

His cheeks heated, though from the wine or … something else, he wasn’t sure, and he backed away as far as he was willing — which, to be fair, wasn’t far. Not nearly far enough. “I — I mean my country’s king. I am Fereldan, and you — you’re my king. As, um, a Fereldan.”

He could have sworn that something flickered and died in Alistair’s lovely, kind eyes.

Impossible. It must have been a trick of the light. It had to be.

Because any other insinuation was inappropriate. Even if —

No. No _if_ s. Inappropriate and impractical. Inconceivable.

Alistair moved his leg off the couch and put what felt like miles between them, facing the same direction as Cullen — forward. “Of course,” he whispered.

He grabbed the bottle of Antivan wine and refilled his glass almost to the rim; Cullen was no expert, but even he knew that was more than a standard helping.

After several large gulps, Alistair lowered the once again empty glass and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He rolled the glass between his hands as his legs began to jiggle up and down. “So,” he said, in a tone that seemed to be aiming for casual but missed by several marks. “Do you, uh, like your new job?”

Cullen blinked, thrown by the sudden subject change. “You mean with the Inquisition? Um, yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping that the wave of heat flushing his skin would soon diminish. “It — I feel like I’m doing good here. Finally.”

“I’m glad.” Alistair nodded at the glass in his jiggling hands. He looked so … sad? Upset? Lonely? Whatever he was, Cullen wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort him with a hand on his shoulder.

But he didn’t. Contrary to what everyone liked to believe and constantly declare about the Inquisition’s commander, he was a coward. The refrain pounding to the beat of his heart confirmed it.

_Inappropriate. Impractical. Impossible._

He was still capable of helping his old friend in some way, though. “And you? I can’t imagine you ever wanted —” No, _comforting_ , damn it! “That is, er … being a Warden seemed to suit you.”

Alistair’s mouth curved upward, and Cullen’s heart soared to see it.

“It did,” Alistair said. “I liked it.” Then he chuckled, and his soft smile sharpened. “Except for all the death and destruction. Not a big fan of that. But the whole being-part-of-an-Order-of-misfits-who-help-people? That was pretty great. Until it wasn’t.”

And then he grinned, but not the one that Cullen loved to see, the one Alistair flashed when he was teasing or joking or genuinely happy. This one was far too cynical for Alistair, and it made Cullen’s chest ache. He wanted to fix it, to make it better, to bring back the good Alistair grin.

But that was all part of Alistair, wasn’t it? Even when being cynical — about the Chantry, for example, or being a Templar — Alistair was always smiling. Everything was worthy of laughter. The whole world was a joke waiting to be made.

“How do you do it?” Cullen blurted.

Alistair raised an eyebrow and glanced at him. “Do what?”

“How do you stay _you_?”

At that Alistair froze — the jiggling of the legs and arms, the rolling of the glass, even breathing. It all stopped for a long, eerie moment.

And then Alistair did what he always did, what made him Alistair, the very thing Cullen was asking him about.

He laughed.

He leaned back against the arm of the couch, turning slightly so he could regard Cullen, and laughed, as though Cullen had said something funny and not asked a deeply personal existential question.

“The same way I became _me_ in the first place — it’s the only thing that keeps me from going insane.”

That, more than anything that had come before, made something deep inside Cullen twist and tighten. “Is it truly so terrible?”

“Not always. Sometimes I like it. On days when I feel like I’m helping people, it’s actually kind of nice.” Alistair twirled the empty wine glass through his fingers with a dexterity Cullen had only seen in dual-wielding rogues, not sword-and-shield warriors. “I like it better than the idea of being a Templar, if that’s what you were wondering. But then I imagine I’d like most things better than that.”

“But you chose neither. They were chosen for you.” The thought alone made him ache. He might not be proud of many of his own actions, but he couldn’t say he didn’t make the choice to be a Templar, to stay a Templar, to obey or disobey Meredith, to leave the Order and join the Inquisition.

Alistair shrugged with a depressing resignation. “Some things are impossible to escape. My blood is one of them. The country needed a leader, and I had the right father, which was apparently more important than being competent or really knowing anything about how to lead a nation other than how to smile and look pretty.” He grinned. “And most days I can only manage one of those.”

He looked relaxed and content, but Cullen knew him better that that — Alistair was, as always, covering up his pain with humor.

At the very least, he deserved the sort of honest reassurance he had provided Cullen.

“From what I have heard over the years,” he said, avoiding Alistair’s gaze, “you are a good king.”

Alistair ceased his twirling of the glass before laughing again. “And what exactly have you heard all the way out here in the mountains?”

“The mountains are still in Ferelden, are they not?”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, but in a playful sort of way. “Technically. But Kirkwall isn’t.”

“As you said yourself, many Fereldans fled to Kirkwall during or just after the Blight. Most of them had something to say about the new, nontraditional king.”

“Ah.” Alistair grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Cullen recognized the look from when they were in training — he’d smiled like that while waiting to be reprimanded, attempting to hide the expectant pain of rejection. “And what, exactly, did they say about their bastard king?”

Cullen set down his own glass, turned on the couch to face Alistair, and leaned forward. Placing a hand on Alistair’s arm, he met those lovely but wary golden-brown eyes. “That you are fair. Kind. Insistent on taking care of all the people of Ferelden, not just the nobles, or even the humans. That you have your detractors, though even they respect you, and that, while you are by no means an expert diplomat, you always manage to make gains in talks with foreign powers.”

Here, Cullen paused, as the words he wanted to say veered into the personal. But Alistair needed, more than anything, to hear someone who knew and, yes, cared about him to be brutally honest.

“But more than anything,” Cullen said softly, “you are obviously well-loved. Your blood may have put you on the throne, but it is your actions that have proven your worthiness to your people and to Thedas.” He squeezed Alistair’s arm for emphasis. “I always knew you were made for something other than serving the Chantry. Now I truly believe the Maker had a hand in putting you on the throne for the good of Ferelden.”

Cullen hadn’t realized until he’d finished speaking how far Alistair had leaned toward him. Eyes wide and shining, Alistair, who the Mothers had once declared incapable of keeping longer than a few seconds’ silent vigil, opened and closed his mouth a few times, but made no noise.

Cullen smiled.

Gaze flicking to the where Cullen’s hand gripped his arm, Alistair finally managed to rasp, “What’s so funny?”

Cullen’s smile widened until his cheeks ached. “I’ve never seen you speechless before. I wasn’t sure it was possible.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes. “Well, excuse me. I’ve never received such a high compliment from someone I respect and admire before.”

And with that, every bit of confidence Cullen had hoarded in the past few minutes evaporated, sending his heart rate soaring. Commander of the Inquisition, and he was reduced to a blushing school boy at the suggestion that someone — and not just any someone, but the King of Ferelden — admired him.

No. At the suggestion that Alistair admired him.

Dropping his gaze to his hands — or rather, hand, since he couldn’t bring himself to release Alistair’s arm even to wring his hands in embarrassment — he muttered, “I’m sure there are far better men who deserve such respect and admiration more than myself.”

He felt, rather than saw, Alistair lean even closer. “There aren’t. I’ve lost count of how many times, when faced with a difficult decision, I’ve asked myself, ‘What would Cullen do?’”

If he thought his heart pounded before, now it seemed ready to explode from his chest and propel itself into flight. Alistair had revered him over the years as someone wise enough to consult about decisions affecting thousands of lives.

Alistair had thought of him.

_Him_.

Maker, he didn’t deserve such respect, but oh, how he ached to be worthy.

“Your Majesty, I —”

“What did I tell you about calling me that?” Alistair was so close now that even a whisper sounded like a yell. “I don’t want to be the damned king right now. I don’t want to be anyone right now but me, with you. I want to be —” His eyes roved Cullen’s face, as if drinking it in. His lips parted, his breaths, like Cullen’s, coming in short bursts. “Maker’s breath, I want —”

“Alistair,” Cullen breathed, and that was all either of them needed.

They lunged at the same time, mouths meeting with the force of hours — months — years even, of pent up emotions. But they countered that force, or rather its opposite, which was strong enough to push them apart again for another ten years, by grappling for any hold they could on each other.

Alistair thrust his fingers into Cullen’s hair, holding him in place and opening his mouth for Cullen to enter. Cullen swept his tongue between Alistair’s soft lips, pulling him near at the moan Alistair let loose, wanting, _needing_ to be as close to him as possible.

Unfortunately, a large, silverite breastplate separated them.

Cursing himself for not removing it earlier, Cullen let out a growl of frustration, but Alistair nipped his bottom lip and expertly (not to mention blindly) worked the buckles until Cullen felt the armor go slack. Then Alistair pulled away — Cullen let out a whimper at that — and dexterously lifted Cullen’s coat and cuirass together over his head and onto the floor with a loud _clang_.

Cullen dove for Alistair’s mouth again and yanked him against his chest, and Maker’s breath, it felt so _right_. Alistair seemed to melt into him, and Cullen pulled him closer until Alistair was completely in his lap, arms around his neck. They devoured each other, the need so strong and deep Cullen thought he might drown in its undertow.

The closer they clutched each other, the more desperate they became — kisses sloppier, breaths more ragged, hands grappling for any hold they could find. The need wasn’t even sexual — or rather, wasn’t merely sexual. Their embraces were tight, almost painful, as close as humanly possible, but simultaneously delicate. Maker, Cullen had despised touch ever since Kinloch, but this … the way Alistair grabbed at him, intense but tender, as though he were something precious … he hadn’t been touched like this in a long time.

Maker’s breath, had anyone ever touched him like this?

But as passionate as they were, as far as their hands roamed, neither seemed interested in going further, as if they needed the companionship of the other’s sweet caresses more than anything else in Thedas.

Cullen couldn’t have guessed how long they went on, even if Corypheus himself had demanded it; such did the moments spent holding and being held by Alistair seem to exist outside of time itself. But after some unknown number of minutes, or perhaps hours, their vigor ebbed. Their arms relaxed, though did not release; their kisses slowed, but did not cease; their desperate grasping softened into sweet caresses, but no less ardent than before. They rested their foreheads against each other, palms cupping cheeks, eyes closed, catching their breath.

“Told you,” Alistair whispered. “You should have taken the armor off.”

“Oh, shut up,” Cullen said.

Alistair gasped. “How dare you? I am the _King_ of F —”

For once, Alistair did shut up.

So did Cullen, for that matter.

Speaking was rather difficult while kissing each other breathless.

 

* * *

 

When they broke apart again, Alistair, still sitting on Cullen’s lap, lay his head just to the side of Cullen’s pauldron — both of which, Cullen would admit, were most definitely in the way — arms around Cullen’s waist, nuzzling into Cullen’s neck.

When Cullen opened his eyes to look at him, Alistair wore a peaceful smile.

“Answer me honestly,” said Alistair. Cullen’s belly swooped at the reminder of the last time he’d said that. “How long have have you wanted to do that?”

Cullen’s laugh, though awkward, felt deeper and richer than it had in quite a long time, and it resonated in a rumble between them. “Longer than I should admit.”

Which was, in itself, an admission, and a rather embarrassing one, at that.

Cullen turned his face away when Alistair lifted his head. “Longer than today?”

Cullen hoped that by saying nothing, Alistair might drop the topic.

Foolish. This was Alistair.

Gentle fingers, somehow still-calloused after a decade on the throne, grazed his chin, drawing him back to find pinked cheeks, soulful golden-brown eyes, and the sort of smile Cullen had never seen on Alistair before.

A shy one. “I thought it was just me.”

Cullen’s stomach fluttered. “When —”

“The last year or so before I was conscripted. You, uh, really filled out, and you started to laugh at my jokes instead of rolling your eyes or scolding me. I realized that I loved your laugh. I still do.” Alistair pressed his lips, feather-light, to Cullen’s. “When?”

Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. “Not until after you left.”

He’d known he cared for Alistair, but he’d never realized how much until it was too late. The next time they’d seen each other was at Kinloch Hold, and then nothing for over ten years. Until today.

He’d convinced himself it was the Maker’s will. They were never meant to be.

Once again, his heart pounded out what had become today’s refrain — _Inappropriate. Impractical. Impossible._

“Oh, Cullen,” Alistair breathed, brow furrowing as his thumb stroked up and down Cullen’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.” Then, in a tone opposing in every way, he snapped, “Okay, these are coming off.”

And before Cullen could move to assist, he’d unbuckled and tossed onto the existing pile Cullen’s pauldrons, bracers, and greaves. Then he gently climbed back into Cullen’s lap, nestling himself into a sitting position in his arms once again.

“Much better.”

Cullen smiled and ran his fingers through Alistair’s hair and around, ending with his palm cupping and thumb caressing Alistair’s cheek. Pulling him close, almost cradling him like a babe, he placed a sweet, soft kiss on Alistair’s mouth.

Eyes closed, Alistair smiled lazily. “Mmm.”

“You aren’t going to fall asleep on me, are you?”

Alistair nuzzled into Cullen’s neck. “I could. You’re more comfortable than a dozen royal beds.”

“That seems excessive.”

“It is. Your arms are already more cost-effective for Ferelden.”

Ferelden. The figurative (and literal) barrier separating them.

_Inappropriate._ His heartbeats repeated the refrain. _Impractical. Impossible._

“Don’t.” Alistair had raised his head to regard him.

“What?”

“You’re overthinking this, like you do with everything. Maker, I could tell the moment it crossed your mind because every muscle in your body tensed. That was supposed to be a joke. Don’t think about it.”

“Perhaps it would be better if we —”

Alistair cut him off with a kiss, and Cullen had just enough time to regret introducing him to that tactic before he melted. Alistair wrapped his arms around him, and in that instant, even though Alistair was sitting in Cullen’s lap, Cullen was being held in Alistair’s embrace. Thrusting his fingers into that rust-colored hair, Cullen pulled Alistair closer, tighter, until his arms ached with the strain. But since Alistair’s hold on him did the same, he figured Alistair didn’t mind.

They fit together so perfectly, and Cullen’s heart ached with a contentment he knew couldn’t last. Though closed, his eyes began to sting, which only made him more desperate to devour every bit of Alistair he could.

It was Alistair who pulled away first, with a gasp for air — Cullen hadn’t noticed he himself had forgotten to breathe until his head cleared at his own gasp — but only enough to bury his face in Cullen’s shoulder. Equally disinclined to be parted for any amount of time, Cullen did the same, barely keeping in the tears threatening to rip him — and them — to shreds.

Only when he felt wetness seeping through his own tunic did he realize he’d just been on the receiving end of all three of Alistair’s favorite methods of coping with difficult emotions — humor (“Your arms are more cost-effective for Ferelden”), denial (“Don’t think about it”), and distraction (the precious, desperate kisses Cullen would never forget).

“Alistair,” he whispered.

“I’m fine,” came Alistair’s muffled voice, followed by a low sniff. “Everything’s fine. Nothing to worry about here.”

Cullen’s own tears fell then, and he turned his head to press a kiss to the bottom of Alistair’s jaw. “If it would be easier,” he said, slicing his own heart out as he did, “I can leave.”

“No!” Alistair still didn’t lift his head, but he did clutch Cullen’s more tightly to him. “That’s the last thing I want! I just —” He let out a shuddering sigh. “Give me a minute?”

Cullen rested his head against Alistair’s and massaged his fingers through his hair in comforting circles (for them both).

Alistair took several long, deep breaths, and Cullen joined him. He needed as much calming as Alistair; he had no idea what to expect next.

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” Alistair mumbled, face still buried against Cullen.

“I most assuredly will not.”

Cullen swore he could actually feel Alistair’s eyes roll against his shoulder. After another minute or so, Alistair whispered. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been held like this. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

Cullen’s throat tightened. “I — it’s the same for me.”

Alistair made a noise that sounded distressingly like a sob. “Please stay?”

Maker’s breath, how he longed to. But — “I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But …” Alistair lifted his head enough so that his chin rested on Cullen’s shoulder and he could speak almost directly into Cullen’s ear. “The Landsmeet’s getting anxious. I don’t have an heir. They want me to marry, and I don’t know how much longer I can put them off. I keep trying to explain that it won’t matter, the Taint makes Wardens basically sterile, but all they care about is the _bloodline_ , like they’re breeding fucking mabari, and I just —”

Cullen turned, pressing his lips to Alistair’s cheek and keeping them there. Anything he could say wouldn’t help, and anything he wanted to say wouldn’t make it out before his voice stopped working.

“Maker, Cullen, I’ve thought about this, dreamed about you too many times.” Cullen flushed at the idea that Alistair had _dreamed_ about him. “I want to lay in your arms and hold you in mine as long as I can.” Alistair’s whisper tickled Cullen’s ear. “Will you stay the night with me? Please?”

Inappropriate. Impractical.

Ill-advised.

All those things were still true.

“How long before you return to Denerim?”

Silence, and Alistair seemed to freeze. “A week.”

And yet, tonight, right now, with Alistair in his arms begging him to stay, Cullen couldn’t give a damn about logic or propriety.

“I’ve dreamed about this, too. Ever since we received word you were coming to Skyhold. And perhaps a few other times over the years.”

Alistair let out a weak chuckle and nuzzled into Cullen’s neck.

“Yes,” Cullen whispered. “I’ll stay. Every night, if I can.”

Alistair pulled away with a gasp, and Cullen caught only a glimpse of that brilliant, genuine, perfect Alistair grin before they were kissing desperately once again and every other thought left his mind.

At some point, he carried Alistair to the large, soft bed covered in too many pillows (which ended up on the floor), where they continued until, like before, their intensity waned, their kisses gentled, and their arms loosened to the sweet softness of sleepy caresses.

Cullen pressed Alistair’s upwardly curved lips with his own.

“Mmm,” Alistair sighed. “Stay.”

“As long as I’m able,” Cullen whispered. “My king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story decided it needed a short epilogue. But since "short" is relative, it's still on its way.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tardiness, but I needed this to be _right_.
> 
> I went back and forth about whether this should be an epilogue or a second chapter (mostly due to length, but also because of some of the plot points), but I think I'm settling on epilogue. It ties things up while also providing us with an outside POV of these two. Plus, Spymaster Leliana is pretty fun to write.
> 
> Content warning for extended grief/mourning

Leliana stood alone, staring at the piece on the war table that had recently been moved from Denerim to Skyhold. She’d been pleased to see her old friend yesterday; they’d exchanged hundreds of letters over the years, but she could always tell he was purposefully distracting her with gossip and palace intrigue.

(She’d never tell him to stop, of course, as the information had come in handy more than once; she had her suspicions that Alistair had given her the information in the hopes that she’d use it, for the double purpose of helping her and ridding himself of problematic nobles. He was far more clever than anyone ever gave him credit for.)

Seeing him in person for the first time in years confirmed her belief that he was, in fact, unhappy. She hated seeing him that way, but what truly made her chest ache was that the woman who had put him on the throne (and given her life to kill the archdemon, taking Leliana’s heart with her) would have been heartbroken to know she’d caused her dear friend this pain.

The door to the war room opened, and the Inquisitor entered, followed by Josie.

“Any luck?” Leliana asked.

The Inquisitor shook her head. “I pounded on all three doors, and even shouted in my most Inquistorial voice that I needed to see him at once.” She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“The guards on duty last night mentioned that he left the office with King Alistair around nine,” Josie added. “They did not see him return, nor did anyone on the following shift.”

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. “It’s not weird, is it, that technically the meeting hasn’t even started yet and we’ve searched Skyhold top to bottom for Cullen as if he’s been missing for a day?”

“It is quite unusual for no one to have heard from him by this time,” said Josie. “He always oversees the morning exercises.”

“Indeed.” Leliana nodded, a smile curling her lips in spite of herself. “It’s as I thought.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes widened. “You think —”

“Josie, could you please send a message to Arl Teagan that we will be meeting him outside the king’s chambers in fifteen minutes, and that he should dismiss the guards?”

 

* * *

 

The man she’d once known as Bann Teagan, the only member of the Guerrin household who had ever shown any sort of compassion or tenderness toward Alistair, paced in front of the door to Alistair’s chambers. He had, thankfully, done as she’d requested, since he was alone in the hallway.

“Sister Leliana,” he said, running up to her. “Inquisitor. Ambassador.”

Leliana’s stomach twisted as a memory surfaced — Teagan approaching them in Redcliffe, similarly worried, and her love promising to do what they could for the village, the arl, and his family. Certain it would return to her tonight as she fell asleep, she shoved the memory aside.

“Good morning,” she said, forcing sufficient cheer into her tone. “Have you attempted to rouse him?”

“Only once, prior to receiving your message. His response was the same as always.” Teagan glanced between the three women and muttered, “I should not repeat it in present company.”

The Inquisitor snorted, Josie smiled (she had surely seen worse in Orlais), and Leliana rolled her eyes. “My lord, I assure you that our ears are as far from being sensitive to such language as Alistair is from Empress Celene.”

“I see.” Teagan eyed her for a long moment. “If I may be candid, Sister Leliana —”

Leliana waved her hand. “I’d prefer it. And we can dispense with the formalities, which will make the next hour or so much easier. We four are the founding members of a small, discreet club, after all.”

Teagan paled. “Do you believe something has happened?”

“Oh, I know something has happened.”

“What?” Teagan grasped one of her hands in both of his. “Is Alistair unwell?”

His worry was touching and seemed borne out of true affection for Alistair, not concerns for potential political ramifications. She had been unsure until this point, but decided that he could stay and learn the truth.

She patted his hand and smiled. “If you haven’t deduced the situation by now, then I must question your ability to advise him on matters of governance.”

Comprehension dawned, and the expression she expected of one working so closely with Alistair finally appeared.

He put his face in his hands and sighed. “Damn it, Alistair!”

Leliana giggled at that — drawing surprised but amused looks from both Josie and the Inquisitor, as even she herself couldn’t remember the last time she’d done so — and nodded toward the door.

“Try to rouse him again.”

“And quickly,” said Josie. “Time is of the essence if we’re going to have any hope of fixing this mess.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “I should hardly call it a mess. And who said anything needed ‘fixing’?”

Teagan stepped toward the three of them and spoke in even quieter tones than before, which was a good, if unnecessary, precaution. The walls had ears, even if the ears, in this case, were hers.

“I must agree with the Ambassador,” he said. “The Landsmeet is pushing him to marry —”

She raised her chin and said coolly, “I fail to see how our current situation in any way inhibits —”

“— to produce an heir,” Teagan finished, spearing her with a glare that, if not intimidating, assured her that he knew that she knew full well the concerns of the Landsmeet. “The throne of Ferelden currently has none, and we cannot endure another dispute over the throne in less than two generations.”

“Then I shall find you an adorable child with Alistair’s hair and bright eyes and chubby cheeks —”

“Do not be naive, Leliana.” Teagan surprised her in his vehemence. “There must be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the child is of his blood, else we invite the same doubts as the country entertained ten years ago regarding Alistair.”

“I was there,” Leliana snapped. “And as I recall, the doubts were due to the facts that Alistair was unacknowledged and Cailan had no heir. If Alistair names an heir, blood or no, the people will accept it.”

“The Landsmeet only supported Alistair because of —”

“Her.” Leliana’s tone could have given an ice dragon frostbite. “They couldn’t decide what to do, so they begged her to choose, as everyone did during that time, and she did. Whatever arguments were made after the fact in an attempt to delegitimize him were irrelevant to the initial decision.”

“The only reason he was even an option was his blood!” Teagan hissed. “You are not Fereldan. Why do you care who the king does or doesn’t marry or who his heir is?”

“I am his friend, and I care about his happiness! As should you, if you truly love him. Or do you, also, only see him as the child of Maric, as so many others in Ferelden do?” Leliana had not felt such righteous rage since Justinia’s death, and even then, she’d had to mold the anger out of her numb grief. But this was different. It wasn’t about her. “Some sacrificed everything to put him on the throne, and they did not do so only for him to live a miserable life he never wanted!”

“Could you keep your voices down?”

Leliana whirled around to see Alistair only in trousers, his arms crossed, casually leaning against the door jamb, blocking the view through the crack in the door behind him.

“I hear the walls have ears.” His grin was … brittle. Wrong. “Even if they’re yours.” Then he tilted his head, regarding her for several moments. “If she ever intended for me to be happy, she would never have made me king.”

The indifferent way he stated it, like it was a long-accepted fact, made the space where her heart used to be flare in phantom pain. “That’s not true.“

Alistair held up a hand, like a man who was used to people stopping when he did. His casual confidence surprised her into silence.

“She asked me to take the throne because she knew it would be best for Ferelden,” he said, as though making a royal pronouncement. “And I agreed, because she was right. But neither of us were under any illusion that it would ever make me happy, least of all me.” Then his eyes softened and he smiled, and once again she recognized their Alistair, the one who hadn’t even wanted to lead his only remaining fellow Warden. “But she’d be happy that you’re fighting for me. And I appreciate it, too.”

Before she or anyone could respond, the door behind him opened further and a hand landed on Alistair’s shoulder.

“Invite them in, for Maker’s sake,” came Cullen’s soft baritone. “And for everyone else’s, put this on.”

An arm shoved a man’s tunic at Alistair’s chest before retreating. Alistair grinned and kicked the door open, nodding at the four of them to enter.

“For everyone’s sake,” Alistair asked, voice muffled for a few seconds while he pulled on the tunic, “or yours?”

Cullen, fully armored and not a hair out of place, sighed in that way familiar to all who spent more than a few minutes with Alistair (though his cheeks pinked). But he straightened when he saw the Inquisitor, who was the last inside and closed the door behind her.

“Inquisitor,” he said, bowing his head. “Arl Teagan. Lady —”

“Yes, yes, hello and good morning to everyone.” Alistair waved a dismissive hand and flopped onto a couch. “We all know who we all are. Can we move on to the important business of state that is my private life? Then maybe, if there’s time later, we can all think about how to handle that pesky Corypheus problem.”

“Alistair.” Cullen crossed to the couch and placed a hand on Alistair’s shoulder.

Alistair looked up at Cullen with an admiration Leliana had never seen from him and rested his own hand atop Cullen’s, which only made her more determined than ever to help him find the happiness he deserved.

“No,” Alistair said, returning his gaze to the rest of them. “I’d like to know why who I share my bed with for a single night —” Cullen coughed, and Alistair gave him a half-smile. “After only a single night so far,” he corrected, “is information worthy of the Inquisitor’s presence this early in the day.”

“Well,” the Inquisitor began, a twinkle in her eyes, “aside from the fact that my Commander wasn’t thirty minutes early for our morning meeting for the first time in nearly a year —”

Cullen rolled his eyes, but Alistair’s tone shifted along with his attention.

“You didn’t tell me you missed a meeting,” he gently chastised Cullen.

“I didn’t. I was going to be _on time_ for a meeting.”

“With you, it’s the same thing, and if you miss it because of —”

“Alistair,” Teagan scolded, and Leliana’s rage flared again at the way Alistair flinched, whether it was barely noticeable or not.

She was greatly pleased, however, that Cullen’s scowl seemed to indicate he quite agreed with her.

“I know.” Alistair buried his face in his hands, and Cullen sat silent next to him, rubbing his back, his own jaw clenched.

But Cullen’s utter lack of self-consciousness when it came to supporting Alistair — in spite of the presence of the Inquisitor, his other colleagues, and Teagan — spoke volumes more than any words he might say. Two days ago he’d reddened at the mere mention of dancing with the Inquisitor at an upcoming ball to be held at Skyhold, and now here he was, practically flaunting his devotion to Alistair — a man he had only just reconnected with the previous night — in front of the highest ranking officials in the Inquisition and Ferelden.

Leliana had never loved the man more.

But just how devoted was he? She’d known for years now about the feelings Alistair harbored for Cullen — he’d confided in her after Kinloch Hold, and his reactions yesterday confirmed that his feelings hadn’t changed — but Cullen was a puzzle. She would have to ascertain as soon as possible whether he felt the same as Alistair or was simply basking in the afterglow of a wonderful evening.

Alistair, meanwhile, sat slumped, head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, the very picture of defeat. “I know, Teagan,” he repeated.

“I admit I do not.” Without withdrawing his hand and its comforting rhythm from Alistair’s back, Cullen spoke for the first time directly to the assembled group in the same tone he used for giving orders to his troops — cool, distant, and brooking no argument. “I can understand the arl’s presence and perhaps Leliana’s, but with all due respect, I’m afraid I do not see why my personal life, much less Alistair’s, is the business of the Inquisitor or the Inquisition’s ambassador.”

Cullen’s use of Alistair’s name, rather than the _Your Majesty_ Alistair had been annoyed with all day yesterday, made Leliana smile. Something had changed between them since last evening, and she knew them both well enough to confirm that their current relationship was just as serious as she’d predicted. On both sides.

Excellent. She bit her tongue to hide a happy smile.

“You’re correct.” The Inquisitor addressed Cullen’s question. “Officially, it’s not the Inquisitor’s business. Unofficially, I wanted to confirm that I won my bet against Varric.” Cullen’s mouth thinned. “Aside from that — I think you’re really cute together and deserve to be happy, and I thought I might be able to lend my weight against any naysayers.”

Josie, as romantic as she was, shook her head. “I’m sorry, Cullen, but when your personal life includes a dalliance with Ferelden’s monarch —”

Cullen snapped at her. “I’d kindly ask you not to use such a frivolous word to describe …” His words faded as he looked at Alistair, everything about him softening. But he cleared his throat and continued, “It’s rather presumptuous of you, Josephine, to attempt to define —”

“She’s not wrong,” Alistair mumbled, shrugging while staring at his hands.

For only an instant, Cullen’s face flashed with pain before he drew up his stoic commander persona. He removed his hand, put a respectful distance between him and Alistair, and straightened, hiding once again behind propriety. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

Alistair’s head snapped up at that, but Cullen had already retreated, eyes forward like a proper soldier and subject. If Cullen’s face had only just winked at his pain, Alistair’s bared his soul to everyone present — the rejection and subsequent despair seemed to shout in the silence of the room.

But Cullen, once again safe behind his mask, didn’t seem to notice, and Alistair bowed his head before standing abruptly and crossing to a trunk and gathering several garments.

For the love of Andraste — not only would Leliana need to convince the other founding members of her small club that these two should be allowed to find happiness, now she needed to convince the idiots themselves of their own feelings.

Very well. She loved a challenge.

“Alistair —” Teagan began, tone far gentler than before.

“I’m only getting dressed like a real and proper king,” Alistair said — Leliana knew he’d aimed for _light and casual_ , but he barely hit _neutral_. “Everyone else is ready for the day, and I should be, too.” Stepping behind a screen, he continued. “I assume, Lady Ambassador, that your presence means the Inquisition is worried that a close relationship between Ferelden’s king and a high-ranking adviser of the Inquisition will get Orlais’s knickers in a bunch?”

While at first blinking at Alistair’s casual discussion of politics while dressing, Josephine now smirked at his words. “I wouldn’t have phrased it quite so colorfully, but yes.”

“Why?” Cullen demanded, fists clenching.

“Empress Celene will consider it —” Leliana began at the same time Josephine started, “Because in the Grand Game —”

“Favoritism,” Alistair said simply from behind the screen, cutting them both off by getting straight to the point and rendering any other explanations moot.

Leliana’s chest swelled with pride; he always was cleverer than he pretended to be.

“I know you hate the Game, Cullen,” Alistair said, voice slightly muffled as he seemed to be pulling something over his head. “But even you can see that the King of Ferelden boinking the Inquisition’s Commander makes it look like Ferelden has some sort of unfair advantage.”

In a combination only he could achieve, Cullen both scowled and blushed at the crude phrasing. Knowing them both as she did, Leliana couldn't help but idly wonder if any “boinking” had actually occurred last night.

“And Celene can’t have that.” Alistair stepped out from behind the screen in the same armor and fur-lined coat he’d worn yesterday, smoothing down his hair. “In all fairness, if the roles were reversed, I’d be concerned, too.” He let out a weary sigh, and Leliana saw her old friend age several years in a few seconds. Too many years for those he’d lived.

Alistair was a good man, and, as Lady Cecilie used to say when telling her stories of the cutthroat manipulations required in the Grand Game, _“It is hard for a good man to be king”_ ( _“… or emperor, or duke, or comte”_ being implied). Power corrupted, and the corrupt lusted for power, and remaining a good man in spite of it all took a toll. Leliana doubted most could remain themselves under such circumstances; that was why, of course, her love had chosen him as king.

Mussing up the hair he’d only just smoothed by running his hand through it, Alistair turned to Teagan. “Can we skip the ‘I told you so’s and move straight to how to fix this?”

“Easy!” the Inquisitor said with a smile. “Next time I’m in Orlais, we make a quick stop at the Winter Palace and start spreading the rumor that I’m involved with Celene! Now both heads of state have conflicts of interest, which means no one does. Problem solved!”

Teagan and Josephine shared a glance of exhausted solidarity, but Leliana smiled, and Alistair actually laughed.

“I like where your head’s at. What else you got?”

Cullen, however, stood and crossed the room. “Inquisitor, I cannot allow you to put your reputation on the line for —”

“No one is entertaining the joke as a serious suggestion, Cullen,” said Josephine.

“I wasn’t joking,” the Inquisitor said. “One more wild rumor about me won’t change anything, and it’s better than any alternative.”

“Such as?” asked Teagan.

“I resign my command.” Cullen, as was often the case, spoke softly, but captured the attention of everyone present.

“Absolutely not!” Alistair crossed the room and, for the first time since everyone had entered, outwardly expressed his affection for Cullen. Taking Cullen’s face in his hands and speaking as if no one else was present, he said, “You told me you finally feel like you’re doing good. I won’t let anything ruin that. I _won’t_.”

Cullen wrapped his arms around Alistair’s waist and rested his forehead against Alistair’s. “We should never have —”

“Don’t say that,” murmured Alistair. “Whatever happens after this, don’t ever think that what we had last night — what we’ll always have, no matter what — don’t for a single moment believe things would be better if nothing happened. It’s not a dalliance, not for me. Because —” He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. “Cullen, I —”

Cullen pulled him into a kiss so passionate and beautiful that Leliana, a professional bard who traded in secrets, felt like a voyeur for seeing such a private moment. And yet she couldn’t look away. Cullen’s hand moved up to cradle Alistair’s head as his other arm wrapped around Alistair’s back, holding her dear friend as if he was the most precious treasure in Thedas. The way Alistair leaned in, every bit of him surrendering to Cullen’s embrace, fingers running through Cullen’s curly hair, transported Leliana back to camp during the Blight, sitting and eating around the fire while Alistair entertained and distracted them all with jokes and funny stories and silly puppet shows with the dog, managing to coax tiny smiles from Sten and even Morrigan.

She’d sat apart with her love, watching. “He seems happier.”

“He does,” her love had said. “He never had a family until the Wardens, and after Ostagar … He seems to have found a new one.”

“We all have,” Leliana had said with a smile, followed by a kiss.

Now, she wiped the tears from her cheeks as Cullen pulled away and, thumb stroking Alistair’s cheek, whispered, “Me, too.”

Leliana looked to the others. Josephine, also in tears, covered her mouth with a hand, and the Inquisitor smiled, though her eyes shone brightly.

Teagan turned and met Leliana’s gaze, shaking his head with a helpless shrug, the same desperate, unspoken question between them now as when his brother had been dying a decade ago.

_What can we do?_

So he did care. Perhaps he even loved Alistair like the sort-of nephew he was. At any rate, two things were certain — that Teagan wanted to help, and that he didn’t know how.

It was up to Leliana now, as it had been up to _her_ back then.

So she took a single, steadying breath and approached the beautifully lovestruck men.

When she was standing right next to them, she clasped her hands behind her back and cleared her throat.

Both men, both warriors, one a king and the other a commander, jumped at the noise and released each other, their faces reddening as though they’d spent too much time in the sun. Cullen turned away and rubbed the back of his neck, but Alistair faced her, glaring.

“Do you mind? We were kind of having a moment here.”

Leliana grinned, bowing her head. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I was attempting to present a solution to your dilemma, but by all means, continue. We’ll wait.”

He turned back, perhaps intending to do so, but Cullen, who was still rubbing his neck, covered his face with his free hand and muttered, “Maker’s breath.”

Alistair sighed and faced her again. “Too late. It’s ruined.” Crossing his arms, he raised an eyebrow and said, “As long as Cullen can stay commander, I’m absolutely fine with you assassinating Celene.”

“Alistair,” Cullen warned, but the underlying nervousness in his voice matched what she saw in Alistair’s eyes as they each surreptitiously (or so they thought) reached for the other’s hand.

“The rumors don’t concern me,” she said. “I’m quite good at discouraging them.”

Alistair’s gaze flicked to the daggers on her belt and then behind her to the others, lingering in the direction of Teagan, before returning to her. “I believe you. But unless you intended that reveal to be anticlimactic, I’m assuming there’s more?”

She smiled. He always was cleverer than most people gave him credit for. “Exactly how much pressure is coming from the Landsmeet?” She didn’t need to provide context; he’d heard their conversation in the hall.

Alistair’s mouth thinned. “Quite a bit more than I’d prefer.”

“But not as much as some of us had been led to believe,” added Teagan.

At her raised eyebrow, Alistair explained. “It seems that Eamon, as my adviser, believed that he’d have a large amount of control over the throne.”

“Shocked and dismayed, am I,” she said flatly, as this was in no way news to her. She had known the second Eamon suggested Alistair as a candidate that he’d had ulterior motives.

Alistair scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t completely naive about him, you know, but I needed the help and he was offering. Since I’m actually a rather quick study, over time I’ve been disagreeing with him and sometimes going directly against his advice. He hasn’t been pleased, but then he’s not king, now is he?”

Alistair grinned with a sort of cynical pleasure, which both surprised and delighted Leliana.

“One of his biggest peeves,” Alistair continued, “has always been finding me a queen to pop out an heir, and in the past year he’s started to push pretty hard. Come to find out …”

Alistair looked toward Teagan, and Leliana turned to regard him as well. Teagan tilted his head in a silent acknowledgment, and Leliana found herself smiling yet again at Alistair’s cunning political maneuvering.

“That’s why you brought Teagan along,” she said to Alistair. “For some more private discussions.”

Alistair smiled and spread his hands in exaggerated faux innocence. “Eamon’s getting older. He doesn’t need to be traveling so much, and Isolde was only _too_ happy to agree to the king’s suggestion that he really _ought_ to be spending more time at home, far away from the castle and any people she may or may not still despise.”

Alistair’s smirk was — there was no other word for it — _calculating_. She had never felt prouder.

“And during our trip, Teagan and I had some truly illuminating conversations.”

“Suffice to say,” Teagan added, “that Eamon wanted to push Alistair now to get him used to the notion of marriage for when the Landsmeet truly grows concerned.”

“I was surprised to hear you earlier,” Alistair said to Teagan, “arguing so hard for a blood heir.”

“Well,” said Teagan, “I thought it wise to toe the party line until we made any official decisions.”

Because he didn’t trust anyone, even her. Leliana’s respect for him rose dramatically.

Alistair grinned. “That’s why I keep you around. And you.” He blinked almost coquettishly at Leliana. “Bright eyes and chubby cheeks? You’d steal me a little prince or princess?”

“If it came to it.” She pinched his cheek, and he swatted her hand away with a playful scowl. “But I don’t think it will. How long do you think you could conceivably put off the Landsmeet?”

Alistair looked to Teagan, who said, “A few more years, at least.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Alistair agreed. “There’s a giant hole in the sky. We all have bigger concerns right now, and what’s the point of starting an exhaustive search for a queen if we could all die any second?”

Chuckling at his still morbid sense of humor, she nodded. “Good. Do that. And once we’ve defeated Corypheus and the Inquisition is no longer needed …” She looked at Cullen. “Perhaps the Commander will decide to retire to Denerim.”

Cullen frowned, gaze bouncing back and forth between her and Alistair. “I don’t understand.”

“Do we have to spell it out?” the Inquisitor asked. “No more conflict of interest means you two can be together, you dolt!”

The frown turned to a glare that Leliana knew had made some of the fiercest warriors in Thedas shake in their boots and run in the opposite direction. Unfortunately for Cullen, that glare had no power over anyone present, save perhaps Teagan.

“Leaving the fact that this …” He coughed, looking down to his and Alistair’s joined hands before releasing Alistair and clenching his fists. “… _situation_ is less than a day old, I see no solution as yet for the larger problem of providing Ferelden with an heir.”

Leliana smiled, relishing the way the Inquisition’s commander squirmed under her gaze. “Fear not, Commander. I have several potential solutions.”

“As do I,” said Teagan.

They exchanged looks of gentle surprise when Alistair cleared his throat and, blushing adorably, said, “I’d prefer if we could continue this discussion later. I’ll still have no heir tomorrow. Or in a week. Or, I don’t know, a year from now. Plus, don’t we all have work to do?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Josephine took the hint Alistair waved around like the Iron Bull did his axe whenever they fought dragons. “Inquisitor, I have a few items to discuss with you before our meeting.”

The Inquisitor looked ready to argue, apparently — and sweetly — quite invested in Alistair and Cullen’s fledgling relationship, but relented with a nod. “Of course, Josie,” she said, only sounding a bit disappointed. “We’ll start the war council in … thirty minutes?”

She addressed her question to Leliana and Cullen, who both nodded and responded with variations on, “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“Alistair, whenever you’re ready to discuss the actually important matters of state, let me know.”

“Thank you, Evie,” said Alistair. “And, if I may —”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the Inquisitor said, smiling. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve seen no one today but Josie and Leliana, and we’re all far too busy to engage in idle gossip.” She turned to leave, Josie trailing behind, but paused at the door. “Just between us, though —” She beamed at Alistair and Cullen. “I wish you the best. And if I’m capable of assisting in any way …” Her gaze drifted to Leliana. “I’m sure my spymaster will let me know immediately.”

Leliana responded with a respectful nod, and the Inquisitor and Josephine departed.

 

* * *

 

Alistair clapped his hands. “Right, well, that was just splendid. Teagan, could you give us a moment?”

Teagan smiled. “I’ll be in the hall.”

When the door clicked closed, Alistair approached Leliana. Though she was already looking up at him, he gently touched her chin as if to tilt her head up.

“You know I love you …”

Leliana jerked back. Not only had she not been expecting him to begin with something so … blatantly emotional, but _no one_ had said those words to her in years. Not since —

“Uh-uh,” said Alistair, tightening his grip on her chin, not hard enough to actually hurt, but enough to let her know he wouldn’t let her escape. “You aren’t getting away from this. If it will help, I can have Cullen plug his ears and recite the Chant.”

“‘Though all before me is shadow,’” Cullen began, hands pressed over his ears, “‘Yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left —’”

“Something a little cheerier, maybe?” Alistair called over his shoulder just above normal speaking volume.

Cullen sighed, then started again. “’All men are the Work of our Maker’s Hands, from the lowest slaves _to the highest kings_ …’”

Alistair rolled his eyes as Cullen continued, and both brought a smile to Leliana’s face.

“The difference between yesterday and now is like that between Orlais and Ferelden,” she said. “I’ve never seen either of you so happy.”

Cheeks pinking, Alistair ducked his head, smiling shyly. “It’s stupid how different the world feels right now.”

She shook her head. “That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

Her vision blurred suddenly, and she attempted to blink away the tears, but one escaped and rolled down her cheek.

Alistair wiped it away before she could. “Which brings me to what I want to say. If you didn’t know, now you do — I love you, Lels, and I love her, too. But she was never responsible for my happiness, and neither are you. I’m a big boy king and can take care of myself. Don’t worry about me. Please? Because if you worry about me, then I’ll have to worry about you worrying, and then you’ll worry about me worrying about you worrying, and then neither of us will be worrying about the really worrying things like Corypheus or keeping Eamon off my back or stealing babies —”

She chuckled. He always could make her laugh, even after …

“Lels.” She met his eyes that twinkled with humor and kindness. “Are _you_ happy?”

“I have found happiness in serving the Maker —”

“Good for you,” Alistair said blandly. “But that’s not what I asked. I don’t care if you ‘found’ happiness somewhere. I want to know if _you_ are _happy_.”

Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she understood what it meant to be happy anymore. Not after her death, and then Justinia …

“I am as happy as I can be,” she said. “The rest is none of your business.”

Alistair’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. “I just — you said she would have wanted me to be happy. If so, then she would have _insisted_ that you be happy.”

Heart aching, she took a deep, shaky breath. “She would also have known that to be impossible, given the circumstances.”

Without warning — though she should have expected it — Alistair embraced her, holding her tight to his chest and even rocking her a few times. “Just know that I love you,” he whispered, before pulling away. “And if you ever need anything, I’m just one of your scary birds away.”

“They aren’t scary! They’re sweethearts!”

“One of them pecked at my hands until they bled! I’m pretty sure I still have a scar somewhere …”

“Cullen,” Leliana called. “You may cease now.”

He did, but his hands remained over his ears. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” She rose on her toes and placed a kiss on Alistair’s cheek. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “And she would be _so proud_ of you.”

Alistair blushed. “Thank you. For …”

He didn’t finish, but she didn’t need him to.

When she finally pulled away, she saw Cullen hovering, rubbing the back of his neck, face the same shade as his mantle.

“I’ll see you both later,” she said, bowing. “Twenty minutes, Cullen.”

Cullen nodded, and as she left the room, she heard him say, “I _like_ the verses from Trials, even if they’re not cheery …”

 

* * *

 

Teagan’s head whipped in her direction at the sound of the door opening; he just as quickly returned to his previous pacing at the discovery that it was her.

“Do you truly believe you can put off the Landsmeet?” she asked, without a greeting.

“It was my intention to do so prior to this trip, so, yes.”

He said nothing else and regarded her with caution, and her respect for him increased tenfold.

“I am pleased to hear you are guiding Alistair away from Eamon. I have never appreciated his manipulations, and neither did —”

“I know.” Teagan shook his head. “Even if you both hadn’t been blatantly obvious in your distaste, she sent me a letter.”

Leliana blinked. “When?”

“From the date, it would seem the evening prior to the Battle of Denerim.”

Her breath left in a rush. “I … wasn’t aware.”

“Neither is he, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.” Teagan smirked. “She invoked you, however. Said that you’d be keeping an eye on things, and if I didn’t keep Eamon in check …”

Leliana smiled, dropping her blurred gaze to the floor. That was her girl, all right. Trusting her to make sure everything went the way it was supposed to.

And she had, if probably not the way her love had expected.

Sniffing, she raised her head and showed Teagan she could make good on that threat, if necessary.

“What are your suggestions for a Theirin heir?” Teagan appeared only slightly rattled, but his change of topic suggested otherwise.

“To find a woman he knows and trusts to act as a sort of surrogate, as a wet nurse feeds a lord’s babe.”

“I agree. Did you have any in mind?”

With a smile, she bowed deeply.

As she expected, Teagan’s jaw dropped. “You would do that for him?”

“I think you’ll find there are few things I wouldn’t do.”

He nodded slowly several times. “That is apparent. And what of the Taint?”

“I currently have my own, most trusted people researching a cure.”

“Does he know?”

“He does not, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. I doubt he would approve.”

“I know he wouldn’t. And if a cure isn’t found in time?”

Leliana pursed her lips as if in thought. “As you have no doubt seen as well as I, I am not the only one who would do nearly anything for him. And he has the proper … equipment, so to speak.”

Teagan’s gaze flicked to the door and back. “You believe he would … ?”

Leliana bit back a smile. Fereldan men were such prudes.

“For his king and country? If there were no other way. For Alistair? Without hesitation.”

Teagan’s smile was small but contained a pride Leliana felt in her heart, as well. “He has grown into a far better king than anyone expected, even Eamon. Perhaps especially Eamon. Because he has the one characteristic every king needs, but few have. Including his father.”

“Empathy?”

Teagan nodded. “And the ability to inspire loyalty. His charms —”

“Are near to impossible to resist,” Leliana finished. “I know of only one who ever has, and in the end even she did not despise him nearly as much as she did when they met.”

Teagan grinned, but before he could respond, the door opened, and Cullen stepped into the hall, practically glowing.

“I’ll see you two later,” Alistair said. “Teagan, get in here, and make sure to call the guards back so no one gets _too_ suspicious.”

“Lady Nightingale,” Teagan said with a bow of his head, moving to the door. As he passed, he murmured in her ear, “Make sure you keep him alive.”

“You have my word, My Lord.” And she never made promises she couldn’t keep.

Alistair would not lose his love as she had hers. She wouldn’t allow it.

“Commander.” Teagan nodded his head as he passed Cullen.

The door had clicked shut with Alistair and Teagan on the other side before Cullen managed a distracted “My Lord.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen stood rooted to the spot, smiling his too cute lopsided smile at a closed door.

“I have no doubt you’ll see him soon enough,” Leliana said. “But I believe we have a meeting to attend, Commander.”

Cullen startled, blinking. “Of course.”

As they headed down the hall toward the war room, Cullen fiddled with something in the outside pocket of his coat.

Leliana caught a glimpse from the corner of her eye.

A single, red rose.

She attempted to hide a smile by pressing her lips together, but did not succeed. “He is quite the hopeless romantic sometimes. Then again, so are you.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “I don’t see why —”

“Calm yourself. I am an Orlesian bard, and therefore more of a romantic than the two of you combined.” She nudged his shoulder playfully. “Yet even I find him adorable almost beyond description.”

Cullen cocked an eyebrow. “As an Orlesian bard, I imagine that lacking a proper description must bring shame upon you, your family, and all those who revere you.”

She laughed. If they could look forward to sarcasm less bitter and cynical and more dry and witty from Cullen as a result of his relationship with Alistair, that alone would be worth whatever was to come.

“Thank you,” Cullen murmured. “I’ll admit I was surprised, if pleased, by your support.”

“He is one of my oldest friends, and I wish for him to be happy.” She smiled. “And, contrary to what you might think, I like you, too. After everything each of you has been through, you both deserve happiness, and if you can make each other happy, all the better. The world has so little joy in it right now, we should take what we can.”

Glancing over again, she saw Cullen grinning like the lovesick fool that he was, thumbing the bloom in his pocket.

“But …” She threw her arm out to stop him. “As I said, he is one of my oldest friends, and I wish for him to be happy. Should you harm him in any way …” As she leaned in, voice and expression hardening, he shrunk from her though he was nearly a head taller. “I will not hesitate to draw the knife across your throat myself.”

The stoic, fearless Commander of the Inquisition actually gulped, eyes wide, and nodded several times in quick succession. “Understood.”

She retreated, resuming their walk to war room. “Good.”

For a few seconds, he did not follow. “You needn’t worry. I would give anything for him.”

His somber earnestness only confirmed what she already knew — that he was a good man, even if he had lost his way for a while, and just as deserving of Alistair as Alistair was of him.

And she had no doubts that, when his king required him, he would do whatever was necessary for Alistair’s happiness.

She grinned, continuing on her way down the hall. “I know.”


End file.
